


Nostos

by levromethamphetamine



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Oresteia - Aeschylus
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:33:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levromethamphetamine/pseuds/levromethamphetamine
Summary: Agamemnon returns home from the first military outing he's been away on since Clytemnestra and him have been married... tensions in their new marriage are then ironed out so to speak
Relationships: Agamemnon/Clytemnestra (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Nostos

She stood on the roof, the highest vantage point of the palace, at a night watchman’s post as dawn almost begins to break. It had been a week since the last missive, the most recent clay tablet resting in a place of honor beside her bed, like a talisman, as if its presence could call him home. For not the first nor last time she wished they had managed to institute some kind of messenger network across the kingdom, or some method of communication more instantaneous and reliable than the whims of a man on horseback. She longed to know if her husband had been successful, and every day she did not know weighed heavy on her mind. She spun thread as she stood, as fervently as her mind spun, at least rendering her hours of worrying productive, transmuting her inexhaustible anxiety into thin, fine thread for the loom. Her hands grew redolent with the wool’s oils as she twisted the drop-spindle expertly with her right, absently, twirling the thick cloud resting on her wrist, eyes locked on the horizon, the dim boundary between earth and sky barely discernible this early, let alone what might be looming beyond it. 

  
In the cool grey light, up well before the sun, she was far too anxious to be tired; her right hand spun, fingers twirled more thread onto the drop-spindle’s growing ball, and she scolded herself internally - did she not have confidence in him? He was only going to quell a rebellion taking advantage of the recent change in leadership, attempting to test their new king, she had seen her father return triumphant from a hundred such minor wars in Sparta. What do you gain from worrying, her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Fear has no impact on the forces of fate - ominous as it was, the phrase had stuck with her, and it came unbidden to her frequently now. But when it came to Agamemnon and his fate - strong as he was, a vital force, a mass of untapped strength, the very antithesis of death - she could not help herself but picture, shivering, some imagined violent end, blood pooling around his corpse. Clytemnestra was not, as a rule, prone to anxiety, she thought herself more reasonable, so this bout of fear, pernicious, lurking within her, was uncharacteristic and deeply frustrating- she had not thought herself so weak, so irrational. It was as though some unknown force had taken possession of her and spun these violent potential fates as fast as her hands spun wool into thread, occupying more and more of her mind, to the point that now they took up much of her mind- and she had no idea why.

The party was supposed to be back a week ago; the last message she’d received then (a poor substitute for her husband) simply said there had been unexpected delays - nothing more, the letters mere shallow rough strokes into the clay. She had run her hands over them endlessly, wondering if they had been dashed off in haste, imagining what sort of sudden danger had generated them, and what had happened to the men.    
So she was nervous, pacing back and forth across the balcony, like a mother eagle turning in her nest when her mate hasn’t returned to the nest in days- though they had no chicks yet to speak of, this was the first time they had been separated for so long since their wedding night, and she worried, selfishly, what would happen to  _ her _ if he were to die. 

Letters travel slowly, she reminded herself, and from the field they are infrequent, the last one had arrived a week ago, he may be at the gates within the day; she compared the distances, the speeds, in her head, as she had done a hundred times before, while her fingers plied wool almost absently. But mathematics was no defense against this foreign, powerful fear; and though he should be back at the palace before she could string the loom tonight, she had no way of knowing, no idea if she would ever see him again.    
  
This catastrophizing was brought to a swift end by a sudden light appearing on the horizon, a glowing beacon too dim, moving too swiftly, to be the rising sun. She leaned forward, focused, and there was what must be the scout, riding ahead. She waited, breath caught in her throat, knowing if he lived she would not have to wait long. A few long, agonizing minutes passed, but then, there, she craned her neck and saw his twin horses, the bronze gleam of his chariot wavering, glowing by the torches his men hold, and her heart leapt. The greater party was on the very edge of her vision from the palace’s roof, and though she knew, by her estimate, Agamemnon was still a few hours’ ride away, but she was so thrilled, so enthused, she scampered down immediately, encumbered somewhat by the bulk of her skirts and the mass of wool she still head but rushing to the best of her ability.    
“The party approaches!” she said breathlessly to the first servant she ran into, a thin woman carrying linens; she gripped her arms and grinned foolishly, but she cared not how childlike or unqueenly she seemed, so full-hearted and genuine was her joy. “Fetch our head scribe to the throne room. Tell him to bring the month’s records, there will be much to discuss!” The woman nodded, looking concerned, and ran off the way she had come.   
Clytemnestra, buoyed and energized, busied herself with her weaving, unwinding the thread she had spun from the tight ball wrapped around the drop spindle and feeling the tension in her very being relax as she did so. She turned her attention next to the nascent work, the massive loom she used for making broad bolts of fabric warped with threads of many colors, and her fingers dove expertly over and under each taut thread, building up slowly the image she held fixed in her mind.   
There were no windows in her workroom, as in the palace generally, so Clytemnestra sat near the doorway, working by the pre-dawn light filtering in from the courtyard. As it got brighter, and the sun’s first rays spilled in, she grew restless- the party must be approaching by now, and she needed to speak before their official arrival to Agamemnon’s chief scribe and lead administrator who had likely been lingering in the throne room for a while now. The last thing he needed after a taxing journey was to be beset by trivialities and administrative duties, which Clytemnestra had taken great care to resolve in his absence. Thus she wanted to get the records in order beforehand, to demonstrate her diligence and responsibility, to ease his mind in the practical sense and prove herself worthy to some vague standard the origin of which she herself could not even say.   
Visible relief was present on the man’s drawn face as Clytemnestra rushed in, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Apologies,” she said curtly, eyes sweeping over the myriad records arrayed before them, from petitioners’ transcripts to taxation records, with what she hoped seemed a confident, authoritative gesture. “Let us begin: first, the palace storehouses-”   
  


By the time their meeting had concluded, Clytemnestra pouring over the baked clay tablets and making mental note while the scribe’s head bobbed nervously on his thin neck, a quick run to the courtyard showed Clytemnestra the party had nearly reached the base of the citadel’s hill- her heart fluttered, and she willed it to be still. 

“Have a bath drawn for my lord” she ordered a standing servant, and squared her shoulders, ran through under her breath the list of Mycenaean revenues, what remained in the storehouses, records of notable petitioners, questions of jurisprudence both that she had settled and those that yet required the king’s authority, and awaited her husband’s arrival at the entrance of the palace, standing beneath the grand door’s heavy threshold, the painted stone glowing red and menacing in the rising sun’s first rays. 

_ A bad omen  _ she thought to herself but shook the dark prediction from her head. He had returned, she reminded herself, and a quick scan of the approaching party compared to the one that had left indicated no great loss of men. at the very least there had been no great catastrophe, and she doubted Agamemnon would have surrendered under any other condition.  _ Based on the size of the party alone, it is likely he returns triumphant  _ she reminded herself, trying to quell her unease.

This close to their destination no scouts preceded the party. Agamemnon rode at their head in his chariot, looking every inch a king in armor over leather and linen, the early sunlight radiating off his bronze-clad limbs from behind so he shone like an avenging god. The sight took Clytemnestra’s breath away - he had not deigned to wear his helmet on the return journey, but being Agamemnon, he may as well have been wearing a bronze mask for all she could read his expression. Nevertheless, his handsome visage completed the image of divinity as the party approached, Agamemnon well ahead of the bulk of the group as though, she hoped, he was desperate to be home, to see her again.    
They met at the threshold of the palace, and Clytemnestra stepped forward to speak, dwarfed by her husband elevated in the small bronze contraption with its high, thin wheels. Agamemnon was riding alone but the instant he pulled the horses to a halt, he was surrounded by a coterie of servants; the house was leaking bureaucrats and various other species of subordinate who began to flood the crowded courtyard to see their Lord Agamemnon’s return. 

Small talk and chatter revealed the broad story of the campaign and the reason for their enthusiasm - there had been no grand battle, but the mission was successful, the goals achieved, and tribute had been extracted from the rebellious faction, and that was enough excitement to draw even a small crowd of commoners behind the approaching military train.   
Amidst the thrum of the newly-formed crowd, Clytemnestra felt obliged to welcome him home officially, to assert her authority with the speech she had prepared and rehearsed for this exact moment. The sight of her husband beside her, hale and strong as the day he had left, filled her with confidence and joy and buoyed her spirit and so she began to speak: 

“Hail, my Lord Agamemnon, my dearest- and I blush not to say so, for time and distance and longing removes my shame. Many a night I waited and paced the halls, many a night was sleepless in your absence, many a night I scanned the horizon in vain for a messenger, a sign, some indication that your life remained to me. Perhaps it seems absurd to worry so greatly over so minimal a conflict, but distance and fear can amplify a smaller threat so that it seems to swallow the world.    
But my worry, strong as it seemed then, and even recently as last night, was misplaced, I realized. To doubt in his strength was my folly, for now he stands here before us, constant as the sun, triumphant, having suppressed rebellion, having re-unified Mycenae under the rulership of a truly just king, with just discipline and appropriate clemency dispensed in equal measure. He returns to the throne of a newly united kingdom, and Mycenae is stronger, and the peoples’ hearts are gladder for it. They awaited their king’s return with bated breath - as did I, I admit - and rejoice now in the streets. Let us welcome our Lord Agamemnon’s return with well-earned rejoicing of our own”   
  


She paused, almost anxious at the conclusion of her speech, short as it was; her heart beat faster than normal as she waited for her husband’s response, his address from the chariot, and continued to wait, and began to worry - had she spoken correctly? Her words and overtures had been as formal and grandiose as she could muster - is that not what was warranted? Perhaps she had been a bit sentimental and personal, but surely it was a sign of household strength for the men of the army, the assembling throng of surrounding nobility, the palace staff, to see demonstrations of affection between their king and queen. She acted as always by what she knew, and she had seen Tyndareus return home to Leda many times in her youth. Then, and still, her parents had always greeted each other following separation with a long embrace and mutual, deep affection - but they had been married for years by that point, not mere months.    
This was the first time Agamemnon’s duties as king and warlord both had taken him from her bedside for an extended time. Even if the journey stretched the definition of ‘extended’, and even though she had amply fortified the palace and performed his duties as justly as possible in his stead, and even as she had prepared for this very moment, she felt unsure of the role she was expected to play, a feeling that amplified as Agamemnon’s silence stretched out before the sudden assembled crowd.    
Silence stretched on for a few more unbearable seconds, before Agamemnon spoke. His face remained unreadable, a bronze mask, but she thought she could make out something like discomfort in the way he twisted the reins twice, three times around his hands. 

“Ah. Yes. As was spoken- eloquently I might add” - and here Clytemnestra felt a rush of fondness and pride, but it was to be short-lived.   
“I thank the gods for my victory, for the men who fought by my side, behind me. I am grateful to my wife, loyal as she is, for safeguarding the house-“   
he nodded towards Clytemnestra but his movement was stiff, formal, as if ritualistic, dispassionate. His tone did not change, betraying none of the affection Clytemnestra had been unable to keep from her own speech. Gods, had it been her? Was there something she had misjudged, failed to understand?   
He continued to speak, halting and slow as though he was uncomfortable with not only this speech but the very act of speaking. The words faded into the background as Clytemnestra’s nascent unease and anxiety amplified, drowning him out. She felt the slow creep of shame crawling up her neck like an insect, hot and prickling.    
Every day for a week - if she were to be honest, every day since his departure - Clytemnestra had imagined Agamemnon’s homecoming; how he would bestow affectionate praise upon her, descend instantly from his chariot, sweep her up into a tight embrace with his strong arms, hold her against his broad chest while they both relished the other’s presence. 

She did not know why the vision so possessed her or why it so hurt her that it hadn’t come to pass - she was almost stung, clearly she had done something wrong but for the life of her she could not understand articulate what, how she had failed in performing her role or in its very definition. Maybe she had misunderstood from the very start what it was to be - Mycenae was not Sparta, after all.   
  


She was snapped out of her reverie by the small crowd’s applause, signaling the end of his speech. Here Agamemnon surprised her again - as he descended from the chariot, he offered Clytemnestra his outstretched hand and she took it graciously, gratefully, clutching as if for dear life onto this lifeline. He did not loosen his grip upon reaching solid ground, and the two strode with purpose, Clytemnestra working to keep up with Agamemnon’s longer legs, into the palace, beneath the low, dark threshold into the House’s gaping maw. And the two entered the house together, hands clasped, side by side. Agamemnon pushed bodily through the throng of military and civil subordinates - “I must speak first with my wife”, he said, familiarly curt, by way of explanation and apology, and Clytemnestra gripped his hand ever tighter, ducked her head, fighting to keep a smile from her face like some besotted girl. “I will get the clearest report of the House’s status from a discussion of her records.”   
The heavy doors shut behind them with a solid, resounding thunk, cutting off all sound from the raucous crowd gathered outside in an instant, and the guards at their stations just inside were blessedly silent, though both bowed low upon Agamemnon’s entrance. He strode confidently through the long corridor, fearsome still in his warrior’s guise, bedecked in bronze armor gleaming, though his plumed helmet was tucked under the arm not joined with his wife’s.    
“I played the role of king effectively, I believe” Clytemnestra said as they entered the throne room, with a touch of well-earned pride. The corner of Agamemnon’s mouth quirked upward. “I do not doubt it”.    
She began with the first clay tablet, notes she had made on petitioners both common and noble, those she had judged and heard and whose requests went beyond her ability to act in her husband’s stead.    
“This man’s border dispute was a simple quarrel with his neighbor, I rendered judgment in his favor but a similar case seemed to result not from interpersonal arguments but from these raiders whose attacks impacted the herds of both men and inflamed tempers somewhat. I am not sure whether it requires a show of force from your men’s part-”   
“Hm.” Agamemnon traced the letters with his fingers as though he understood their meanings himself.    
He seemed to listen to her explanation, but offered nothing in the way of advice or propositions, which was unlike him. Agamemnon may not have had the exact regimen of formal administrative training as his wife, but he was nothing if not devoted to the responsible rule of his kingdom, paying keen attention to both her advice and the reports of his various councilors. 

“My lord, are you-”   
“I am not of a mind to pour over letters and figures” he muttered, rubbing his brow with his fingers.

“I rode through the night” he said by way of explanation and apology, his voice softer now, less harsh now that he was out of the public eye.    
“I did not  _ want _ you to fear for my safety. Any longer than you had to, that is”. His eyes met with hers and locked, as though he was drinking her in, making up for the weeks they had been apart. 

Clytemnestra felt as though all the words she had prepared for him about topics more sensitive, more personal than lists of taxes collected and records of petitions, vanished as he continued to stare deeply into her eyes. He was a difficult man to read, but whatever else he might feel at the moment, she could tell from his eyes he was tired. Sore, too, she assumed, with legs impossibly tired if he had ridden all night. She doubted he would complain, however, or even mention the physical strain of it. Even now he fought to keep the exhaustion from his face. 

“I -” she began, blinking, willing herself not to blush at the intensity of this silent, separate, intimate moment. Both of his hands clasped hers.    
“I have drawn a bath. After your long journey, surely it would be a welcome a luxury”    
“I would like that” Agamemnon replied softly. 

He let her lead him to the baths deeper within the palace, although it was  _ his _ House and surely he could find the way by heart. She clutched his hand tightly still but slowed her pace, mindful of the exhaustion he would never deign to mention, and they walked together beneath the massive, Cyclopean blocks that formed the palace walls in a gentle and comfortable silence.

The water was still steaming when they reached the baths, a secluded room deep in the palace’s depths, adjacent to the royal chambers. It must be a welcome sight to her husband’s eyes, Clytemnestra thought, though his face remained impassive. Aside from the two of them, the hall was deserted, bereft of staff or slaves - as she preferred and had requested it, for this duty was hers alone.    
There were fault lines still in the marriage of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra: bridges they had yet to build, awkward lapses of communication, varying expectations or understandings not expressed or discussed. But in this one realm, this small act of domestic intimacy, the two followed a pattern unspoken yet familiar and repeated often enough to be ritualistic.    
First, silently and without needing a word of guidance, she took the helmet from under her husband’s arm, then unbelted the leather straps securing bronze armor to his limbs, dark with sweat. His chestplate came next, always heavier than she expected. Last of his kingly garb to be removed was the red woolen cape, richly embroidered, which she unfastened with care and he instinctively moved to help with the pin, as though he had the steps memorized - which was not unlikely. Now he stood before her stripped down to his tunic and sandals, more a man than a king or even a warrior, and yet the raw power of his body, the strength in his huge, hairy arms, now bare and crossed across his broad chest, his thick waist, his massive thighs just visible beyond the edge of his tunic, almost entranced her. Gods, she had missed this- she had missed  _ him _ , yielding to her wordless command as she beckoned him to put his feet up, eyes locked on her as she carefully unwound the leather straps of his sandals, their soft cast and the way he blinked slowly, like a cat showing affection from across the room. It was tenderness in its own way.

She unwound his tunic next, and could not keep her own gaze from his body as more of it came into view. The muscles of his shoulders and back would put oxen to shame, so powerfully built were they. His chest thick with dark, curly hair up to his shoulders, coarser and thicker on the slight curve of his stomach, most concentrated in the dark forest between his legs. Those legs were also broad and strong and laden with muscle, but that was not as immediately striking as the way tanned skin gave way to paler upper thighs, almost feminine in their softness, striking a contrast with their coat of dark hair. Clytemnestra could have stared for hours; she wanted to run her hands down his body and examine every inch in lurid detail, but she restrained her desire and tried not to let it show on her face, and stepped backward to fold the garment she herself had woven carefully , and to regain her composure.   
Agamemnon entered the water slowly and lowered himself up to his chest and closed his eyes and sighed with relief, a sound like the exhale of a bellows, those big arms thrown around the lip of the bronze tub.. Clytemnestra stood behind, massaging rich oil into his dark skin, reveling in his soft sighs of contentment, her heart beating slightly faster with each response she elicited. She bathed him slowly, thoughtfully, lovingly, expressing with the soft, repetitive motions of her hands what she found impossible to put into words.

He reached up as she rubbed the sore muscles knotted up in his thick, broad shoulders silently, placing his hand on hers and covering it entirely, like a massive lion’s paw.    
“Join me” he said, and leaned his head back until he was looking up at her, brow no longer furrowed. His stern commander’s visage had sloughed off in the water like the layer of dust that had built up on his skin during their hard travel, and now he seemed once again to be no more than a man- albeit a large, powerfully built one. Clytemnestra froze and flushed.    
“I- do you not wish me to - it is my  _ duty _ -”   
“I will wash myself. I can wash you as well- we both can fit” he insisted. Then “if it would please you, dearest” he added, dropping what must have been a subconsciously-applied commanding tone. He had been speaking exclusively to subordinates for months, after all.    
The pet name made her heart flutter and raised her spirits - their initial reunion had been colder than she expected but perhaps she had misread what was merely stiff formality. Yet even that possibility stung, in a way she could not quite articulate.

He removed his hand from hers, fingered the long trailing sleeve of her robe, his thick fingers playing along the raised edge and its gold embroidery. If she focused, Clytemnestra could see the smallest hint of a smile on his stone-hewn face, and that too relieved her.   
“Whatever you wish” Clytemnestra tried to say but her words evaporated. She nodded instead, a more curt gesture than she’d intended, stepped to the side of the tub and began undressing, feeling, for some absurd reason, exposed and almost embarrassed as she bared herself, although it was only her husband’s eyes that were upon her. Perhaps it was the abundance of light from the mid-day sun shining through small, high windows, brighter and more revealing than the low light from flickering torches in their bedroom. Still, though she tried not to show it on her face, she felt shy and small as she had during their wedding as she revealed herself to him. (She wondered if Agamemnon had felt as such when he had removed his robes to step into the bath… but doubted it.)   
It  _ was _ only Agamemnon’s eyes upon her, but they were focused. First she unwound her cloak, revealing her upper arms, then she removed her bodice and freed her breasts. Agamemnon’s eyes flicked down to her chest, then connected with hers again, a self-satisfied smile now fully playing across his face. That alone was enough to alleviate at least some of her discomfort, that and the way he leaned back with his forearms thrown over each side of the bath, all tension gone from his body, more relaxed than she had ever seen him. He caught her staring, frozen as she thought about him, and angled his head upward just slightly, beckoning her to join.    
Clytemnestra’s face flushed and she quickly unwound her skirt, stepping out of the tiered wool garment with none of her previous slow, erotic hesitation. Still, Agamemnon gazed with unabashed desire at her now-naked form as she climbed awkwardly into the bath with him, as though her body were a sumptuous feast he could devour with his eyes- from her chest to her hips, her long legs to the place between them, and the intensity of it made her breath catch and her heart race. As she stepped in, Clytemnestra saw between the thick, hairy thighs of his outstretched legs, spread wide and welcoming, that he was already erect, if it hadn’t been evident enough from his expression and for a moment her breath caught in her throat, she could not look away.

He had been right; there was more than enough room for the both of them, but once she had lowered herself into the water, as soon as she was within his reach Agamemnon wrapped both hands around Clytemnestra and pulled her body against his, kissing her deeply, releasing a month of pent-up passion as he held her as tightly, as closely to himself as he could.   
His large right hand then found the small of her back, where it fit so perfectly, and drew her further towards him, so her chest was flush with his. She folded one leg in a clumsy maneuver over his in an attempt to get closer, inhaled sharply as she felt his cock hard against her. 

Finally their lips separated, they pulled apart enough to breathe, though Clytemnestra’ still had both hands around his broad shoulders, one leg wrapped around his thick waist. There was a heat between them, the air heavy with the lust that burned also in Agamemnon’s eyes, and was evident in Clytemnestra’s own expression, she knew.    
She removed her right hand from around his neck, ran her fingers through the coarse, thick dark hair covering his chest as she took in his strong chin, his massive broad shoulders, the muscles of his arms and breast, strong as an ox and twice as bulky, she remembered and revisited and reveled in every part of him she had longed for in his absence.    
“I  _ missed _ you” she murmured, soft and longing but insistent, almost an accusation. Agamemnon didn’t reply- not with words. It was not his way. But he inclined his head just so , a lionlike movement, gracious and regal, and he smiled a gentle smile, a true smile, a rare precious thing held captive between them, soft and intimate as the way his left hand, brushed with remarkable, gentle delicacy across her cheek, his right still spanning the breadth of her lower back, holding her to him with muscle as strong and steadfast as stone.    
His eyes locked with hers as he caressed her, as though he has been gone a decade, as though it was his first time touching her. First her sharp cheekbone, then the curve of her jaw, then his thumb brushed over her soft lips, paused there, and he leaned forward just enough to touch her lips with his in the gentlest kiss. Clytemnestra caught his bottom lip with her own as he started to pull back, insistent and almost commanding in a way that surprised even her. She removed her hands from his chest and twined them in the mass of black curls on his head, pressing their heads together, as Agamemnon’s hands brought their bodies ever closer, deepening the kiss, but she was slower this time than the first, more deliberate, savoring every second of their lips locked together, her tongue in his mouth, his soft grunt of pleasure caught in her throat, their long slow sighs commingling.    
Agamemnon was more than receptive, made eager by her boldness. Alone, it seemed, he eschewed the Royal formalities and expected behaviors that had made his return speech and greeting so stilted and cold- Rather than being taken aback by his wife’s initiative, Agamemnon was clearly more aroused. As they kissed Clytemnestra felt the pressure from her back lift slightly, but took no notice, entranced, until she felt that familiar rough skin of his displaced hand rasping across her chest, and pleasure shot through her like a bolt of lightning as his thumb circled her nipple, brushing it ever so softly while his hand cupped her breast. 

“Ah!” She gasped, unintentionally, and felt her face turn red. Agamemnon chuckled, a rare low sound that gave Clytemnestra goosebumps.

“It seems you did” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers and just barely touching her lips with his. He kept teasing her, thumbing her nipple more insistently and relishing her response, the little gasps and sharp inhales she could not hold back.

“miss me, that is” he added after a few seconds, 

“Yes… yes, I… 

Agamemnon did not say that he missed her in so many words, but there was a desperate longing in the way his lips brushed her skin, teeth grazing her neck as his hand ventured below her breast, tracing the soft curves of her waist and hips beneath the water. When he stroked her thighs she quivered, her breath light and fast with pent -up arousal; she wrapped one leg around his thick torso to open herself to him, and when his fingers grazed her lower lips, she could not help but cry out.    
“Shh…” he murmured, but a warm smile spread across his face and lit up his eyes as he parted them oh so gently and slid one finger inside her, another teasing that sensitive spot right above her entrance, slowly at first then faster, more insistently as Clytemnestra writhed with pleasure.    
“Oh… oh, gods yes, Agamemnon-”   
She was on fire, consumed with it, her shame had been scorched away leaving only deep, aching desire, some ancient and fundamental need roaring inside her as Agamemnon attempted to sate it. Another massive finger entered her, and she gasped, moaned. Her body was as close to her husband’s as possible, his thick cock hard and erect and pressed against her, pressed between them, his arousal heightened by hers as she ground against his hand, rocked her hips to feel his fingers deeper inside her, building speed as he stroked and teased her still, overwhelming her and clearly relishing the desperate way she clung to him and gasped his name   
“Yes, yes, please, more, Aga _ memnon-” _ _   
_ He acquiesced, silenced her with a deep, heavy, kiss just as she gasped again, a sharp sudden sound as he brought her to her peak, his tongue behind her teeth, his fingers inside and on her, his big arms around her. Any residual anxiety his halting, stilted words, his overly formal demeanor had instilled in her melted away - Agamemnon had never been one for tender words, nor for public affection or even fondness, but there was something strong and deep and genuine in the way he held her, the way he touched her,  _ caressed _ her, with the utmost care, more gently than she would’ve thought possible, and with more passion in between his arms than his eyes or words would betray. This was the man she had longed for, this was the man she had missed so dearly and she leaned into him, breathing in his scent, feeling the thick taut muscles of his shoulders move underneath her desperate grip, she flooded his face with soft kisses.    
When they pulled apart just enough to see each other in the full, she was shaking, trembling, but her legs were still wrapped around him, open to him, and she ran both her hands down his massive, broad, muscled, chest, through the forest of dark curling hair that grew thicker and coarser as she reached his stomach, then his cock.    
She guided him to her entrance, but he needed no further encouragement - seeing Clytemnestra reach the peak of her pleasure once already had brought him almost to his breaking point, cheeks flushed, big hands shaking with the effort of restraint and the overwhelming waves of desire coursing through him - for her, she realized with no little satisfaction.   
With one push he was inside her, and she gasped again, a sudden, sharp, sound that Agamemnon echoed. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, drew her closer and closer to him , and then he was all around her, his loud breath heavy in her ear, thick with lust and effort, his beard rough against her face, his hairy chest drawn flush with hers, like a wall of muscle, his thick arms drawn strong around her back and waist, his massive hands gripping her with a desperate strength as he thrust, hips tensing, wide thighs shaking, faster and harder. Clytemnestra clung to him as if for dear life, digging her nails into his back and shoulders, cried out, forgetting herself and her place in the heat of the moment, releasing an animalistic scream, half shout, half groan, and she did not even think to feel ashamed for it, so engrossed was she in the pleasure of her lord, her husband, before her, inside her, all around and surrounding her.    
“Ah- does it-” her lord, her husband, thought to ask, breathing heavily after each word with exertion. Sweat trickled down his chest and mingled with the water. He paused -it was though he had been overcome with desire and had forgotten her body’s needs in the height of his passion and he slowed the pace slightly but Clytemnestra shook her head emphatically. “No, no, it doesn’t- yes, I want, more, please-” she managed to gasp. As per usual Agamemnon did not respond in as many words but with a grunt he obeyed, bracing himself on the solid bronze wall of the tub, picking up the pace once more and eliciting another sharp inhale as he moved inside her. He kissed her again, bent over her, and when their lips parted Clytemnestra gasped again, ground her hips insistent and rough against his own to eke just a bit more pleasure out of it.

“Oh, yes…. Gods yes, take me, harder, faster, please , my lord, please  **_Agamemnon_ ** -”    
And then he hit some spot deep inside her that made her mind go blank; she dug her nails into his skin harder as wave after wave of pleasure hit her with each fast, hard, passionate thrust. “Yes…” she managed “Right there, that-”    
And then she couldn’t speak for the intensity of it, she could only cling to Agamemnon, half-submerged, now-lukewarm water lapping at her back as he once again brought her to her peak but higher this time somehow. She could feel her inner muscles clenching around him, her legs trembling on either side of his waist as she gasped, moaned, and felt him come too, driven by her ecstasy to his own, filling her with his seed. Agamemnon was not the type to speak during sex, though his low, heavy grunts had their own kind of arousing charm, but she could swear she heard him whisper her name into her ear as he finished, interspersed with fast, panting breaths, his thick, powerful arms so strongly wrapped around her chest and back that she knew there would be bruises later - though he would certainly have some marks of his own, she thought with a secret thrill imagining the red half-crescents she clawed into his shoulders draped in a king’s cloak. He held her ever tighter, as if in response to her ecstasy, then his vicegrip around her released, and with the tension released from their bodies both sank slightly into the water as their limbs went slack. Clytemnestra rested atop her husband, her legs still straddling his hips though her hands slid in a slow, smooth movement from behind his shoulders to resting gently on his heaving chest, absently curling the dark hair.    
Agamemnon reached out with one hand, a soft, languid movement, and let a lock of Clytemnestra’s hair run through his fingers, the other still in its familiar position on the smaller of her back, cradling her, holding her to him still, taking comfort from her closeness in a way that warmed her. For what felt like minutes they didn’t speak, Agamemnon’s eyes half-lidded in contentment and Clytemnestra’s small, satisfied smile doing the work of words.    
“I missed you as well” he murmured eventually, though his longing for her had been so thoroughly demonstrated the words were almost an afterthought, and yet Clytemnestra basked in their glow.   
She pressed herself closer to her husband, curling up on his chest so she could hear the beat of his heart begin to slow. In response, his big arm moved from her back until it was gently stroking the skin of her side, soft and rhythmic and comforting.    
There was love here, she realized with a sudden start, something more genuine and built on a truer passion than whatever bonds were expected between a queen and king. This thing she had never thought to dream of for herself, that she had to place behind duty, that she had to approximate with fondness and friendship and perhaps lust, if she were lucky. They had made it together, built it in slow fits and starts, and she had longed for its presence as much as she had longed for her husband’s body on long, lonely nights.    
She tilted her head, wanting to tell him as much, summoning all her strength- but he beat her to it in the way he met her lips with the gentlest, softest, kiss, gathered her body up in his massive arms and, cradling her as easily as she would hold an infant, lifted her out of the bath, and wrapped her first in a fine linen towel and then again in his arms, as though if he let her out of them, she would disappear.    
Clytemnestra said the words then - quiet and matter of fact, like it was an established fact. And though he did not reply, not immediately, his eyes went soft, the bronze mask melted, and she was rewarded with a broad, genuine, warm smile, and another kiss, gentler, yet deeper, more intimate as her husband lifted her to his chest as though she were a new bride and carried her, slow and soft and loving, to the bed they shared. 


End file.
